


Sprung

by scandalpants



Category: Veronica Mars - All Media Types
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, because he's hot, with Keith, yes I went there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-23 03:36:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11394555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scandalpants/pseuds/scandalpants
Summary: A routine case takes a turn for Neptune's OTHER favorite P.I.





	Sprung

Most neighborhood beer joints, Keith thought, were like this one. The doorway could be a time portal. At first glance he could be walking into any decade of the last fifty years.

The names of the beers on the neon had changed, sure, but who paid attention to that? His feet still stuck to the floor. The pool tables were stained and dinged as they always had been; likely these low-rent bars bought them used from nicer establishments.

The same working joes held up the bar, their jeans, flannel shirts, and ball caps barely distinguishable throughout the ages. Here the women weren't prone to the latest styles, some still teasing their bangs to a three-inch lift as they had since high-school. One old dame sported a beehive Keith was sure she had refreshed at the beauty parlor each week. Even the bartender kept it ambiguous, sporting sideburns of a length that faded in and out of fashion.

It was the lack of cigarette smoke and prevalence of cell phones that hinted at a new age. Well, that and the woman seated at the end of the bar nursing a glass of amber liquid.

Early forties but she sported a style meant for a much younger woman. She wore feathered high-heels—one of the latest and more confounding fashion trends—and had bare legs rather than stockings or hose. A Chanel handbag identical to one Keith'd seen in a display window last week rested on the bar.

Her long chestnut hair was wavy and rumpled, product making it look slightly damp to create a modern, sexy mermaid effect. The only item that spoke of another time was the vintage, art déco ring gracing her left hand.

In the week he'd been following her, Keith had concluded she was the silliest, most frivolous type of woman. A classic trophy wife since the ripe age of eighteen. She divided her time between her personal trainer, a stylist, and the spa. Credit card charges from every variety of department store totaled in the thousands each month.

Her charity work consisted of the usual board seats and high-dollar fundraising dinners. Besides the cost per plate, she donated amounts that would pay off Veronica's student loans in one swoop. All for the privilege of having her and her husband's names printed on a brass plaque in whatever hospital ward was being built next.

Keith hadn't yet spoken to her, or gotten close enough to hear her speak, but he imagined a nasal, southern whine that would remind everyone where she came from. It added up given her overcompensation with her husband's checkbook.

Their eyes met in the bar mirror as Keith passed behind her, headed toward the restroom. He smiled, small and conciliatory. She glanced away, not noticing him enough to be disinterested.

The bar's apathetic motif continued into the men's restroom. Each sink was water-stained and dingy, and a tinge of ammonia—cleaner or stale urine, it hardly mattered—hung in the air. There was so much graffiti on the stall doors most of it was indecipherable though Keith enjoyed a messy scrawl or two while paying the urinal a visit.

_Don't look here, the joke's between your legs._

_The Trojan gum tastes like rubber._

The Carpenters warbled from the jukebox when he bellied up to the bar and ordered a seven-and-seven, a drink that passed scrutiny in most any establishment. Empty bottles and dirty glasses littered the bar in front of the working joes to his right. Two seats to the left the woman swirled her drink, making the remaining ice clink against the glass but not taking a sip. No glasses surrounded her. If she was on a bender she was doing a poor job of it.

Keith let out a heavy sigh and thumbed the gold band on his wedding finger. Catching her eye in the mirror again, he grimaced. "Sorry. Bad night."

She turned and studied him a moment, a hint of humor setting over her mouth. "Look around. This isn't the place for good nights." Her voice was low and feminine, with only a hint of the drawl. So much for his imagination.

The silence between them was companionable. Keith winced at his first sip, she pushed aside her watered down drink and signaled the bartender for another round. When it came she shrugged apologetically at Keith in the mirror. "I'm not much of a drinker."

"Me either." He took another sip and mimed a lesser wince. "Usually. Thought I'd try it tonight."

"Me too. I grew up listening to Loretta Lynn, Tammy Wynette—realized I'd never had a turn being a honky tonk girl."

"How's that working out for you?"

"Hmmm… distant second from Lifetime network and chocolate."

They chuckled. "For me it's AMC and Funyuns."

"And yet here we are."

"Here we are," he echoed, tipping his drink to her. The third sip was smoother. He swirled the glass, mimicking her move, and stared down into it. "This was my wife's drink," he said, only half-lying. It was Lianne's second choice but he never could stomach vodka.

"Was?"

"Is. Sorry. Past tense goes on 'wife', I guess."

"Ah."

This time a BeeGees ballad filled the quiet, further proof the owner hadn't updated the jukebox for at least three decades. "For my husband it's scotch."

"Is scotch? Or is husband?"

She shook her head, not answering him. "I'm Margaret."

"Keith," he said, stretching to tap her glass with his. They both sipped lightly and set down their drinks. "Margaret. That's a classic."

"I suppose. Rather staid, I always thought."

"No, it's elegant. You wear it well."

Margaret looked at him through lowered lashes, pleased. "Thank you. Keith."

"You're welcome. Margaret." He points to a stool one closer to her. "May I?"

"Why not?"

The closer proximity threatened their wavering intimacy established thus far and Keith kept quiet, letting her decide.

"So, wife, past tense. But you still wear the ring?"

"She moved out last week." His work cell vibrated once in his pocket, an incoming text. Keith ignored it. "More to the point, she moved in with _him_. A _him_ I didn't even know existed until this morning."

A ghost of a smile passes over her face and then it's gone. "Ah."

"Ah," he agreed.

"I'm sorry. Do you have children?"

"They're grown."

"Mine too." At his raised eyebrows, a compliment he's only half faking since he could recite her children's names and ages, she laughs. "Thank you."

"You must have had them young."

"I did." She swirls her drink once more. By now Keith has sussed out she liked the sound of the clinking ice more than the cocktail. Her voice retreated, so it's not clear it's him she's talking to, or herself. "My husband does like them young."

Keith shook his head. "Some men are fools that way."

"More than some. But it turns out even fools cannot be fooled."

"How do you mean?"

"I—," Margaret waved a hand from head to toes, pointedly ending at her, yes, feathered shoes that didn't seem like those of a mature woman. She changed the wave to one of dismissal, her back straightening. "You know what? I don't want to talk about this. About him."

"Okay." He gave her his most disarming grin. Given Keith rarely drank the little bit of bourbon had gone to his head. He pushed his glass aside and leaned forward, elbow on the bar. "What should we talk about?"

Margaret picked up her glass and downed her drink in two gulps. The horrified shudder that ran through her body was comical, unlike the shudder of categorical delight Lianne would give on her first drink of the day. Margaret shook back her hair and breathed deep. "I don't want to talk."

Thinking he pushed too far, too fast, Keith sat up and leaned back. "Sorry."

"No," she chuckled, her eyes closed and head still back. "I didn't come out here tonight to talk. I came out because I wanted to feel. Feel drunk, feel angry. Feel, I don't know, free." Her accent was a little thicker, loosened by the drink.

"Do you? Feel free?"

"No."

Keith eyed her feet and surveyed the bar. Raising a daughter alone he'd learned a lot. "Hold on."

Twenty dollars and two minutes later he was at her side with Janay, a bedazzled gal in her fifties. Janay was only too glad to exchange her new, sparkly Payless flats with the comfort soles for Margaret's fancy, feathered heels. Margaret turned her foot this way and that, delighted with the trade. She stood up and ground her heels, groaning. "Oh sweet Jesus, that feels good."

On impulse, Keith grabbed her hand and twirled Margaret, garnering an elated laugh from her. "You, ma'am, wear sensible well."

She held out a glittery shoe. "I'm never taking these off."

Another tune spilled from the speakers. Margaret's head rolled in rhythm on her shoulders, eyes closed. "Oh, I love this song." Her eyes opened and fixated on Keith. "Dance with me?"

There was not dance floor, per se, but they made do in the space between the tables and the bar. Up close, Keith had to revise his earlier assessment. Margaret's pretty wasn't generic. Her face held a thousand, tiny imperfections that made her unique.

Fine lines cut a path to brown eyes that glimmered with intelligence and humor. Her features held a slight asymmetry only discernable from close scrutiny. When she smiled small indentations cut deep by her mouth. Her top lip turned out ever so slightly at the outer-ridge, and a small, round scar along the line of her nose spoke of a rebellious youth.  

Surprising himself, Keith realized he liked her. He gave himself over to the moment, ignoring the lie. That the body pressed against him was more than a job. More than a stranger looking for a comfort and affirmation, things he'd also been lacking for far too long.

The deep, gruff croon of Van Morrison swirled around them, casting a spell. Margaret rested her cheek on Keith's chest and they shuffled their feet without regard for the song. It was less of a dance than a mutual sway, reminiscent of junior high, and he followed her need. Other couples in the bar did as well, joining them in their makeshift dance space. The bartender obliged by dimming the lights and turning spotlights on an unobtrusive disco ball Keith hadn't even noticed was over their heads.

Margaret laughed, tilting her head back to look up at Keith. "Why do I feel like I'm in a bad movie?"

"Too much Lifetime network?"

"Don't get judgy."

"I was talking about the bartender."

Her hand released his, and she moved to clasp her hands around his neck, reinforcing his memories of junior high dances. He wrapped his arms around her waist, moving them closer until their hips met.

"Keith?

"Hmmm?"

"How far does this go?"

Keith brushed a lock of hair out her eyes, mesmerized by the swirl of pink, white, and purple light that washed across her face, obscuring those fine lines he'd admired moments ago. "How far does what go?"

"This. Your job. Luring me. How far does it go?"

His feet stopped. "What—"

"Three days ago," she said, nudging him with a hip to keep moving. Her body relaxed into him as she smiled into his eyes. "You passed by my manicurist. I was thinking about Charles, and what I'd do when he left me. If I'd even be able to look at another man. I met him when I was so young."

"Margaret— "

"And then you walked by," she interrupted. "You were wearing this light brown suit and striped tie, and you looked, I don't know. Sexy, kind. Safe."

Keith exhaled, relief and shame battling it out inside him.

"And then you were behind me at a traffic light. I didn't think much of it then. Until I went into Charles' desk looking for a stamp and found a notepad. He had 'Mars Investigations' written down and circled a bunch of times. Like he does when he's on the phone with someone. I looked you up."

Van Morrison gave way to Eric Clapton and still Keith and Margaret cut a square on the floor, enjoying the boon of someone with decent musical taste. He was made. The job was blown and the fee he'd counted on for this month's rent shot to hell. This mattered much less than he'd thought it would.

"Did he tell you we have a prenup? I had a lawyer look at it ten years ago, the first time he cheated." Margaret laughed, amusement tinged with anger. "Correction—the first time I figured out he cheated. I was eighteen when I signed and never gave it another thought until then. If I divorce him, no matter why, I get nothing. But if I cheat? I get nothing. Did he tell you that?"

"No." He swallows. "No, he didn't." Charles Palmer had weaved a very different tale as a matter of fact. Of a wife of indifference, whom he suspected slept with anyone who paid her the slightest attention. When Keith couldn't substantiate an affair the plan was to lay a honeytrap, taking it only so far as far as a flirtation with clear intent. Not his favorite kind of case but bread and butter of the PI business. It wasn't a point of pride he was good at it.

"Well, no matter. Our youngest daughter left for college today and I followed through on a promise to her to file for divorce.  Charles was served just a few hours ago.   I'm surprised he hasn't fired you yet. He's not one to spend money frivolously, unless it means he's getting laid."

It's moments like this Keith hated his job. As Sheriff, there was such a clear line of right and wrong. Since becoming a P.I. he's crossed that line countless times. More days than not it's a coin toss which of Neptune's elite deserve the screws put to them so his conscious remains intact.

This wasn't one of those days.

Remembering the ignored text from earlier, Keith stepped back and retrieved his phone from his pocket. No surprise, there was a text from Charles Palmer letting him know his services were no longer needed. He turned off the recording app and handed the phone to Margaret.

Her lips tipped into a sardonic smile as her eyes scanned the text. "You know he loves mysteries? Thrillers with surprise endings. You'd think he'd be less predictable."

"Margaret, I'm sorry. If there's anything I can do… ," he trailed off, unsure what to say.

"You can finish this dance with me. Give me that, at least?"

Keith nodded and drew her back into his arms until her forehead rested against his chest. Margaret's hands rested on his biceps and there was a distance between their bodies that wasn't there before. He missed her, the contact they'd shared just moments ago.

The final notes of the song faded out and, as if knowing, the jukebox fell silent. Margaret lifted her head and wiped a tear from her eye. "How far was it going to go?" she whispered.

"A kiss," Keith whispered back.

"A kiss. One kiss."

"With a recorded agreement for it to go farther. You may not believe this," he smiled, running his eyes over her face, fixing it in his memory for the next time one of these jobs came up. "But there's lines even I won't cross."

Margaret swallowed, lifting her chin. "A kiss. Well, then you're job's not done yet, is it?"

A merciful soul fed the jukebox so Elton John filled in their background, reminding Keith he's also not the man they think he is at home. "They" being his beautiful daughter with her high ideals, who'd be appalled at the jobs he takes to keep the lights on.

Then again, Elton also thinks Mars ain't the place to raise your kids, so maybe he was never really meant to do right by her. Or anyone.

Margaret is waiting, and he can see it, the uncertainty. Is she desirable? Is she worthy of attention, even from someone who is, himself, not worthy?

Stepping closer, giving her the choice with every motion, Keith drew a finger across her brow to brush away the same pesky lock from earlier. He tipped her head up and brushed her lips with his own. When they opened beneath his, he attempted the tiniest of invasions.

Margaret leaned in, her arms wrapping around his back and her sigh breathing him in. Their kiss deepened and Keith sensed need in it, of a hunger long denied. Arousal stirred within him and he broke off their contact, his heart beating faster than it had in years.

Her laugh was light, empowered, the finger she ran over her lower lip telling. "Wow. Okay."

Keith swallowed, regret pooling in his throat anyway. "For what it's worth, you're husband really is a fool."

"I agree, but so am I. Keith, I'm about to suggest something reckless and completely improper but would you— "

"Margaret— "

"Take me home. Please, oh Keith," she closed the space between them, leaving him helpless but to draw her against him. "I want to feel like this forever. Every part of me is awake and alive and I'm not afraid. I've been afraid for so long."

He remembered, from his years with Lianne. Afraid of breaking up his family, facing an uncertain future. Of never loving again, or even feeling that surge of lust and excitement a night with another can bring. A surge he, himself, hasn't felt in far too long.

"Not to be too cliché, but your place or mine?"

Margaret threw back her head and laughed, a warm and earthy sound that let Keith know he'd only seen what she'd allowed him to see, until now. Desire heated his blood in response.

She chose his place, her situation being complicated at the moment.

It'd been years since a woman had graced his home. The time he'd spent filling in during Lianne's lapses had left him a decent housekeeper. His fridge was full, bathroom clean, and sheets fresh, as should be expected of a man who'd crossed the line of middle age. Therefore, during the drive he only had to worry if Margaret's headlights would disappear from his review mirror.

As they should. He didn't deserve this, even for one night. Though apparently the fates or gods or whatever disagreed as she followed Keith into the driveway of his bungalow and parked behind him.

While Keith expected awkwardness or reconsideration, Margaret was having none of it. He was barely out of the car before she pressed against him, her fingers twined into the bit of hair he had left at the back of his head, and pulled him down for a kiss.

The hunger he'd sensed at the bar was present full-force, and Keith met it with his own. With the little sense left to him, Keith wrested away so he could lead her up the steps of his house.

His glass windows and doors didn't serve as deterrent. Barely inside, she pushed at his jacket until it fell to the floor, simultaneous with hers. Margaret shimmied Keith's tie over his head, or at least attempted to until it stuck in the middle of his forehead, to the hilarity of them both.

Laughter and clothes fell from them as they worked their way down the hall to Keith's bedroom. Margaret, with only faintest light through the window to guide her in an unfamiliar layout, hit the bed with the back of her knees, taking Keith down on top of her.

Keith could feel the heave of their chests as they both tried to catch their breath. In the time of rest their mood changed, quicksilver, into one of significance. Her face, which he'd thought was pretty before, became haunting and lovely, etched in silver from the moonlight.

Margaret reached a finger and drew the lines of his face. She traced the shape of his lips, and ending by bringing herself up to give him the most reverent of kisses, innocent despite their half-clad bodies and the legs she had wrapped around his waist.

"Is this real?" she asked, her forehead pressed against his.

"No," Keith whispered, his hands moving to find and clasp hers. He lowered his head to lay the lightest of bites along her jaw to her neck, smiling when a telltale shiver ran through her. "Nothing this good is ever real."

This close, away from the bar smells and other distractions, he could detect a slight floral scent from her shampoo. Her skin held no fragrance but her own and he breathed it in, making a memory to hold onto in lonelier days ahead.

They'd shed her bra somewhere around his doorway. Keith drank her in, liking her all the more when self-consciousness caused her arms to twitch, and she resolutely kept them where they were instead of covering her breasts, as she obviously wanted to.

He had his own insecurities, extra weight and scars from his car accident a few years before among them. Tonight was a gift, though, and it seemed they were both intent on not wasting it.

Keith shifted to his side to better take her in, drifting a lazy, inquisitive touch along the contours of her skin. He smiled with satisfaction when she arched her back as he traced her breast. He obliged by lowering his head and taking the tip of one in his mouth, eliciting a deep groan from her. Margaret's bashfulness rose again and again, falling away piecemeal under his attentions.

Her legs fell open, accepting and welcoming of his touch, but she stiffened when his kisses moved from her breasts to her stomach, then froze as he attempted to go lower. She cupped his chin in her hand.

"No, I—Charles never. Keith— "

The tang of her arousal filled his senses and Keith breathed deeply, laying a kiss at her thumb. Need lit his blood afire and he wanted nothing more but to taste of her, especially as his fingers still lay within her depths.

"Who drew that line? You, or him?"

Her fingers rasped against the shadow his beard as she contemplated this question. "Him, I guess? He said men only did that in the movies. That they didn't really like to."

"I thought we established Charles was a fool?"

"Do men? Like to, I mean?"

Keith laughed ruefully and rubbed his chin against the soft skin on her thigh, getting a tickled laugh from her. "Forget men. Forget me. What do you want?"

Margaret chewed on her lip, torturing him with indecision. "But won't it—I mean the taste?"

In answer, Keith lifted his hand to her face, running his finger over her lips and across her tongue. She stiffened at first, then relaxed and took what he offered. Her tongue tasted of his hand, of herself, and she sighed.

Under him her legs relaxed, falling open. Keith explored slowly, allowing her to change her mind, and was gratified when she let him continue.

One of Keith's greatest pleasures was tending a woman. Given his job, he often wondered how many marriages could've been saved if the chumps he observed spent less time seeking their own satisfaction and more paying attention to their wives.

Okay, no one's marriage was ever that simple, his own included, but it wouldn't hurt.

Based on Margaret's reaction, quite the opposite, in fact. The hoarse rise and fall of her breath tracked her response, and Keith followed those wordless requests until she suddenly raised her knees and grasped the back of his head. Keith obliged with the slightest increase in speed and pressure until her cries filled the room. Her body went rigid beneath him, then languid as her internal spasms tightened and released around his fingers.

Gasps of laughter and disbelief drew him back up her body. He drew a trail of nips and kisses along the way, loving how sensitive she was to his every touch.

If her need was met, his was only greater. It took everything Keith had to hold back, let her decide if she wanted more.

She drank of him, tasting herself with a sigh of satisfaction that did nothing to lessen his situation. His body shuddered as she reached between them took him in hand, passing a feather-light touch up and down his length. "God, that was good," she rasped. "More. I want more. Want you."

Keith reached a blind hand out, feeling for the drawer of his nightstand. He thanked the serendipitous wave of hope that had brought him to replace the expired condoms he found there only a few months ago.

Margaret locked her knees at his hips and rolled him over so she was on top, so close the edge of the bed they were in danger of toppling over. Not caring about their precariousness, Keith took advantage of the change of position to wrench open the drawer and find the condoms.

The formerly shy woman sharing his bed tore the three pack from his hand and ripped open the first one, throwing the rest of the roll to the side. Keith abided by laying still while she expertly rolled the condom on him, centered herself, and plunged down.

He grasped for the headboard above him, lest they roll off the bed. Marget didn't care. She planted one leg on the floor, the other curled at his side. Her hand pushed against his chest for leverage as she rode him slow and deliberate, like she was Lady Godiva making her way through the streets of Coventry.

Keith watched, enthralled by her quest for pleasure. He was sure no woman had ever been more beautiful than Margaret Palmer, her mouth dropped open, eyes shut tight, and breasts heaving as she sought completion above him.

His own gratification surged ever closer. Chancing their demise, he let go of the headboard to grasp her hip with one hand, and press against her center with the thumb of his other. Margaret's cry and increase in speed met his own and they ran it together.

The press of her hand into his chest went unnoticed in that moment as Keith rose up to meet her, his own moans overpowering her soft cries. Margaret stilled, jolted, then fell against his chest with a grunt of satisfaction. Disengagement was sloppy and unpracticed, but they managed amidst groans of long unused muscles and joviality. Finally, centered on the bed, Margaret curled into his side. Keith pulled the sheet over them, feeling a chill in the room.

It wasn't sleep he drifted into, so much as replete oblivion. Beside him Margaret murmured, "Keith?"

"Hmmm?"

"Charles really is a fool. It makes me wonder what else I've been missing."

It took the last of his energy to turn his head and kiss her temple. "We must take adventures to know where we truly belong."

"Who said that?" she asked, her voice thick and slow.

"Beats me," he murmured. "Saw it on a bumper sticker."

"Where I belong…," Margaret's breathing deepened and slowed. "There's a question."

For the first time since Veronica moved in with Logan, this house didn't feel empty. Keith wondered about a woman fresh off twenty-four-year marriage, and if there was room in her adventures for a broken-in, broken-down, and just plain broke P.I..

As he let go of consciousness, he took with him hope. Hope that had no place in his life during awake hours. The warm body nestled into his side told him this was all a dream anyway. One good, long, sweet dream...

It was the phone that woke him the next morning, along with the sunlight streaming in his window. The bed beside him was empty, the floor bereft of any clothes but his own. He shrugged on his robe as he answered the phone and headed out to the kitchen to make coffee.

"Hey, Dad."

"Veronica. Good morning."

"Try afternoon. You take an early retirement and forget to tell me?"

Keith squinted at the clock and yawned. "Sorry. Didn't get much sleep last night. I'll be in the office in an hour."

"Why were you up late? You don't have any active cases right now."

"Just had a weird dream. Nothing to worry about."

"You okay?" The concern in Veronica's voice warmed everything but his cold feet on the bare floor.

"Sure, honey. Just… fine." Keith's voice trailed off, noticing a stray piece of paper on the counter.

_Keith,_

_I'm off to find out where I belong. Thanks for my first adventure._

_Margaret._

"Dad?"

"Yeah." He picked up the note and smiled, feeling only a little regret. "Don't worry about your old man, Veronica. I'll be in soon."

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written because someone, she knows who she is, asked for it long ago. But I refuse to gift because gifting porny things just makes it awkward.


End file.
